


Ripped Seams

by thestubb



Category: Gravity Falls, Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Daddy!Wirt, Dipper can't sleep, Mabel wants to cut her hair, PTSD!Kids, Post Finale, Wirt is a frazzled father, and Stan won't call him back, time to bring in the big guns, tw: small mention of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestubb/pseuds/thestubb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the beginning of the summer, Wirt sent his children to spend some quality time with their great uncle.  Now they're back, and something is very, very wrong.  One-shot. Very small mention of sexual abuse.  No pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ripped Seams

**Author's Note:**

> AN: So I recently watched Gravity Falls for the first time and I’m absolutely enthralled by it. Wow. Holy cow. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the PTSD the kids would suffer as a result—cheesus crust, the PTSD—so I decided to write this. I know the kids seem fine in the finale, but I credit it to two things: one, it’s a cartoon, so tiredness and scrapes and whatnot disappear rather quickly. Two, they’re still in the Falls among their family and friends when we last see them; I feel like on the bus ride home the full weight and sadness would kind of crash over them. They’re kids, for crying out loud.  
> A while ago, even before I’d watched Gravity Falls, I saw this adorable fanart of the twins when they were babies. I don’t remember whose kids they were, either Greg or Wirt’s, but I SO headcanon them as Wirt’s, so that’s whose they are in this one. I don’t mention his wife’s name; headcanon as you will, or not at all. I was mostly concerned with depicting a frazzled father with traumatized children.  
> So, here’s the labor of my love; it’s a bit of a monster, but I hope you enjoy it. I certainly did.

            His children are dead kids walking.

            That’s the first thing that pops into Wirt’s mind as he waits at the bus station alongside his wife. Two small beings: one laden with bright luggage and adorned by a neon sweater, the other sensibly lugging camping bags and wearing a furry hat stumble off the steps of the bus.  Even from afar, Wirt can see their eyes have bags the size of Jupiter and their feet ever-so-obviously drag along the ground.  And are those scrapes and bruises dotting their faces?

            And why is there a pig following them?!

            Then Mabel catches sight of her parents, and Wirt raises his hand in a greeting. 

            Mabel’s face crumples, she drops her luggage, and begins to run towards them with all the speed of an awkward gazelle.  She flies into her father’s arms and wraps hers around his waist, suddenly sobbing into his stomach. 

            “Hey, hey, Birdy, what’s wrong?” Wirt questions, hugging her to himself.  Of course it’s a little awkward at this angle, being that he’s tall and lanky to begin with, and she’s a considerable distance shorter than he.  Still, it’s been so long since he’s seen her that he can’t bring himself to tear away from her.

            “She…she just missed you guys. A lot,” says Dipper.  He’s followed at a more moderate pace and collected her baggage with his own, dragging two suitcases and multiple carry-on bags behind him. 

            Wirt has to steady himself from shock--his son looks _exhausted_.   But it’s not even the healthy kind of exhaustion that comes from playing in the woods and canoeing all day.  His shoulders are slumped, his eyes droop, he looks like he could fall asleep at any second.  His voice is monotone and quiet, his usual bubbly excitement gone.  He could be the exoskeleton of his son, rather than the living, breathing, flesh.

            “Hey, Bud,” Wirt says, and loops Dipper in with an arm.  He expects his son to stay limp and cool, but Dipper curls an arm around his waist and squeezes surprisingly hard.  “Happy birthday!  How was your vacation?”  
            Mabel sniffs and wipes her eyes, allowing her mother to embrace her.  “It was the greatest summer of my life, Dad. Can we please go back again next year?”  
            Wirt is surprised.  From the looks of things, he would have expected his children to plead to never return to Gravity Falls ever again.  Still, positive developments are positive developments.  Maybe they _are_ just tired.

            His wife starts cooing over the various minor injuries littering the twins’ skin as the family traverses back to the car, and though Mabel does chitter about certain special events that took place over the summer, it’s nowhere near her usual enthusiasm.  Dipper is silent, staring at the ground ahead of his feet, and though he hangs close to his father’s side he doesn’t say a word except for when his father ruffles the hat on his head and comments on the fur, when he just says a friend is letting him borrow it.

            Mabel falls asleep on the car ride back, and Wirt doesn’t comment on the sheen of tears in Dipper’s eyes as he stares out the window.

oOoOo

            “Stan, you better answer this phone,” Wirt snaps into his cellphone late that night.  The twins went up to their respective rooms early, and his wife hums a tune softly in the living room. “What happened this summer?! My kids look like train wrecks!”  He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, mentally reciting a loop of Walden poetry to calm his frayed nerves.  “Just…call me back when you get a chance.” He hangs up and sighs, tells his wife he’s going to go upstairs to get a book, and is just reaching the top when he hears footsteps. 

            Raising an eyebrow, he watches as the door to Mabel’s room creaks open.  Though of course the two are incredibly close, as they grew older their parents had put them in separate rooms.  However, Mabel pokes her head out and steps next door towards Dipper’s potentially hazardous dwelling, carrying her blanket and pillow. 

            Wirt moves closer to get a better look as Mabel quietly opens the door and leaves it swinging behind her, giving Wirt a perfect view of everything.

            Dipper lies on his back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.  For some reason, he has a miniscule lamp on in the corner, giving a subtle hue to the various science knickknacks, books, and papers that litter the room.  “Dipper?” hisses Mable, however, and he shoots up.

            “What’s wrong?” he asks. His face is fire and anger and concern.

            “I…I…” Mabel twists her blanket between her hands. “I can’t sleep.  I keep thinking about…”

            Dipper’s face softens, and he gives a breathy chuckle.  “You too?”

            Mabel nods, and Dipper pats the soft comforter of his bed.  “Sleepover?”

            A wide, toothy grin splits Mabel’s face in two as she crawls next to Dipper and snuggles down, wrapping herself in her blanket.  “Look, I’m a cocoon!”

            “So that’s why you’ve been eating so much lately.”

            Mabel scoffs and pelts him in the face with a pillow shaped like a space shuttle, and even though he’s confused and now worried Wirt is comforted by Dipper’s familiar laugh. 

            The twins don’t even notice the door shutting without a sound.

oOoOo 

            The twins slowly seem to go back to normal now that they are back in the comfort of their own home.  Mabel lights up the house with her laughter and neon sweaters, her pig that she somehow convinced Wirt to let her keep following her all the while (it took a lot of Whitman to get him over that one). Stickers slowly fill up the fridge and the floors and the TV and the clothes in the laundry, glitter pervading the very air they breathe.  Dipper’s papers and pencils make their ways downstairs, mathematical equations materializing in cupboards and the fridge.

            Wirt chooses not to comment on the one detailing a portal to another dimension that he finds wadded up in his shoe.

            And even though Dipper doesn’t sleep too well and the house isn’t back to its old, chaotic silliness, things are beginning to settle again, and Wirt can breathe a little easier.

            That is, until he gets a phone call from the school saying that his children need to get picked up from the nurse’s office.  Flying from his seat in his business office, he hurriedly stuffs papers into a briefcase and runs to his car after hurling an excuse at his boss. Ten minutes and uncountable angry drivers later, he’s breathing heavily and standing outside the office, trying not to imagine his children bleeding or dying.

            He’s got a problem.

            He manages to still his breathing and knock on the nurse’s door like a sane, reasonable human being, and someone calls for him to come in.

            “Hey, guys, what’s wrong?” he says cautiously, taking in his children.  Dipper is pale and infinitesimally quivers in his seat.  He’s withdrawn and looks like the world could squish him with one tiny little pinch.  Mabel, on the other hand, is defiant and stares at him as if she wishes him to challenge the fact that she’s sick.

            Which means she definitely isn’t.

            The nurse fills him in on the details.  Apparently, Dipper had seemed fine all day (he was certainly fine when he left the house that morning, Wirt can confirm).  As a sort of fun day in history class, his teacher had put on National Treasure for the class to watch.  It had seemed fine for a while; then, in the middle of some Free Masonry explanation, Dipper suddenly leaned over and dispelled the entire contents of his stomach on the floor next to his desk—as well as three other students.

            Mabel had escorted him to the office, and then, when told to go back to class so Dipper could go home, also promptly puked on the floor. 

            _Hope is a thing with feathers_ , Wirt thinks desperately to himself, and gathers his impossible children into his car to transport home.

            “All right, Mabel,” he says as soon as they’re buckled up and driving along the smooth roads.  He outstretches his hand like some kind of imperial Pharaoh and beckons towards her with it. “Hand it over.”

            Mabel doesn’t even try to fight him on this one, instead electing to go the painless route and dig around in her backpack for a moment.  Eventually, she comes up with a canister and plunks it down in his palm with all the grace of a captured convict.  Wirt slides the container of tepid, mustardy-colored muck in the pocket next to his seat and tries not to turn green. “Why do you even have this in your backpack?”

            “Who _doesn’t_ have fake puke in their backpack?” Mabel asks, and Wirt doesn’t have an answer to this.

            “You okay there, bud?” he instead questions, looking in his rearview mirror at his son.  Dipper stares out the window with his arms crossed and chin resting on his forearms, his eyes faraway.

            “Fine,” the teen says vaguely, and even though Dipper comes down for dinner that evening looking back to his old self and teases Mabel as per the usual, Wirt can’t help thinking that he most definitely is not.

oOoOo 

            Wirt knocks softly on Dipper’s door that Saturday, Mabel and her mother gone for the afternoon.

            “Dipper?”

            “Hold on one second,” Dipper’s muffled voice comes through the wooden door, and after a moment of scuffling, scraping and some questionable mutters, it swings open.  Dipper holds a piece of loose leaf paper and has pen marks on his cheek (which means he’s been clicking it on and off against his face, a habit he picked up from his father). The pen in question is tucked behind his ear.  All these facets add up to one thing: Dipper is plotting something.

            Wirt struggles to crush the urge to run screaming.

            “What’s up?” Dipper asks.

            “Can I talk to you for a second?”

            Dipper’s face drops for a second, but he manages to paste a nonchalant expression back onto his features.  “Sure, come on in.”

            Wirt’s jaw drops ever so slightly as he steps into Dipper’s room. Papers litter the ground and are tacked along the wall, bright yellow yarn connecting certain ones.   There are a few pictures scattered here and there, words scrawled in the margins.  And in the center of the wall, There’s one large paper with only two letters on it: GF. It’s a spider web of ambiguity and confusion that spans the entire room.

            Wirt’s not sure if he should be worried.

            Shaking his head and dispelling troubling thoughts of his son trying to take over the world, he sits on Dipper’s bed and pats the comforter next to him.  “Have a seat.”

            Dipper’s face slowly slips into a concerned frown, and he puts the paper down before cautiously following his father’s bidding. “What’s going on?”

            How should he go about this?  How do you ask your son about potential rape or molestation?  Wirt has to think about what to say for a moment; any previous rehearsal of lines to say or questions to ask have been banished from his mind.  Wirt stammers on his words, then after his momentary verbal flailing, decides to drop (most) pretenses of delicacy and forage into the unknown.  “Did something happen this vacation?”

            Dipper’s face goes pale.  “Wh-wh-what do you mean?”

            “Just…that…you and Mabel haven’t exactly seemed…yourselves, lately,” Wirt says carefully.

            “We’re just tired,” Dipper lies.  Wirt can always tell when Dipper lies.  In the grand scheme of things, Dipper received most of Wirt’s qualities—good or bad—while Mabel somehow turned out more like Greg than anyone.  Suffice to say, it’s handy that Dipper can’t lie, since Wirt can’t lie to save his life.

            “Really?  It’s seemed a little…tense around here.”

            “What do you think happened?”

            “I don’t know,” says Wirt.  “Did…you guys get into a fight?  Something scary happen?”  Now for the big gun.  “Did someone do something to you?”

            “What?” Dipper looks confused, then it dawns on him.  “Are you asking if someone raped us or something?”

            “No!” Wirt defends himself, then stops.  “Well, maybe.”

            Dipper collapses into laughter, shaking his head.  “No, Dad!  Geez!”

            Wirt tries not to be offended. “Well, I just wasn’t sure--”

            “You don’t think I’d tell you if Mabel or I were molested?  Way to have a little faith in me, Dad.” Dipper’s words should chastise him, but Dipper seems so relieved Wirt can’t help but be confused more than anything.

            _What could have happened that would make finding out someone’d been sexually abused relieving?_

            “Well, I didn’t know,” Wirt offers.

            “I promise, Dad, no one did anything like that to us.  Especially Grunkle Stan,” Dipper says, as if he knows exactly what Wirt was about to ask next.  “We had a great time with everyone.” 

            “Coooould it maybe have happened to Mabel and she not tell you?”

            “No,” Dipper says decidedly, shaking his head.  “She tells me everything.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “500%.” And Dipper seems so positive that Wirt can’t help but trust him.

            After a moment of staring at Dipper and waiting for him to tell him what the hell is bothering them, then, and without receiving any clue, Wirt sighs and stands up.  “Well, all right then.  I’ll let you get back to…” Wirt gestures vaguely at the surrounding chaos. “This.”

            Dipper seems to remember something, and his face grows serious again.  He tries to smile disarmingly, but there’s something different—older, wiser.  Jaded.

            Holy crap, his son’s growing up.

            “Thanks Dad,” Dipper says as he hops off his bed, and Wirt nods.  He leaves the room, but not before stopping at the door.  He holds the doorframe and pauses, staring at the floor.  Under his foot, there’s a sticky note with a triangle in the middle, one word scrawled along the bottom.  It’s different than the other words around the room, so carefully written in terrible handwriting.  This is hurried, and pounded into the paper.  It’s angry, as if written in a moment of rage and cast off.  And it simply says “Puppet”. 

            Wirt swallows and looks at Dipper.  “You know you can tell me anything, right?  You’re safe, here.”

            Dipper throws him a thumbs up and nods, and Wirt nods and turns away.  

            Behind him, he hears Dipper pick up the sticky note and crumple it before shutting his door.  

oOoOo 

            By the end of the week, Wirt is frazzled with worry.  He and his wife have had conference after whispered conference with each other, casting glances out of the corner of their eyes at their children.  She also senses something is wrong, but, as he already spoke to Dipper about the truly pressing prospect, she thinks they should let the kids be, and let them come out with it when they’re worried. Wirt, on the other hand, has already been looking up psychiatrists and outlining a two-year plan of therapy and subtle conniving.  He wants to know what’s happening to his kids, and he wants to know now.

            On Friday, he catches Mabel at the kitchen table writing a letter and doodling along the edges as Dipper snacks beside her, head in a book.  It’s filled with its customary glitter and pizazz, which is a comforting thought to Wirt.

            “Whatcha doin’ there, Birdy?” he asks, ruffling her hair.       

            “Writing a letter,” she answers, concentrating on the paper.

            “Oh yeah?  To whom?” Wirt questions, reaching into a cupboard to retrieve a mug and fills it with water to heat in the microwave.

            “Grunkle Stan,” she says, and Wirt remembers that he’s on a boat with his long lost brother Stanley.  Which is something he doesn’t want to think about because poetry is better than trying to figure out the dynamics of this particular semi-dysfunctional family.

            “Why?  You just saw him last week.”

            Mabel still won’t look at him as she passes pencil over paper.  “So that he won’t forget us,” she says seriously, and Wirt feels that strange feeling of anxiety start to form in the pit of his stomach for the umpteenth time.

            “Wh-why do you say that?  He’s not going to forget you,” Wirt stammers out.

            “We don’t know that,” says Mabel lowly, and Wirt has to drown his throat with tea that scorches its walls to swallow its dry lump.

            “W-well we don’t have an address for him,” Wirt says.  Just for once, he wishes he wouldn’t be anxious for two damn seconds.

            Dipper slaps a slip of paper on the table in front of Mabel’s laptop.  There are some words written on it, delicate, cursive, spidery things that loop elegantly.  “Great Uncle Ford gave us a place to get in contact with him.” 

_Huh_ , Wirt thinks.  _I don’t remember his handwriting looking like that._

And then he lets it alone because what else is he going to do?

And there are little things he keeps catching; strange looks, Dipper unable to sleep, Mabel pleading to send entire boxes of pictures to Stan (they compromise on ten and a small photo album). Wirt cannot, for the life of him, figure out what is going on, but he lets it be and hopes his children will eventually trust him enough to talk to him about whatever is bothering them. 

And then Sunday night hits.

The children finish their respective homework and do their respective frivolities and then troop off to bed.  Mabel leans down, whispers “Stay shiny, Dad,” and then somberly releases a shower of glitter over his head. Dipper rolls his eyes and snags his sister’s arm, and Mabel does the same to him as they walk up the stairs. Dipper chokes and shoves her away, Mabel cackling, and the twins’ footsteps disappear in the distance as Mabel runs away. 

Wirt can finally relax because things are turning back to normal.

After a few hours of writing poetry (okay, more than a few), Wirt finally heads upstairs at 3 in the morning.  Yawning, he slips into bed, cuddles up next to his wife, and is ready to fall into a slumber before heading off to the office in the morning.

He’s just about to fall over the brink of deep sleep when he hears a piercing wail from down the hall.

He shoots up, his fingers fumbling for his glasses.  His sleep-addled brain is fuzzy, and it’s just about all he can do to untwist himself from his blankets.  His wife blinks awake, raising her head, as Wirt flips on the lamp light switch. 

The scream echoes down the hall again.

“Mabel,” Wirt says, nothing else being needed, and he’s dashing down the hall.  Narrowly avoiding bumping into doors and walls, it seems to take a millennium before he reaches Mabel’s room. His shaking hands fumble with the doorknob a few seconds before he can finally turn it and yank the door open, his wife practically falling behind him.

Mabel is curled in a ball in her bed, screaming into her hands.  Wirt can see the tears on her face, sobs wracking her body as she cries out in terror.  Her tense body is shaking so hard he can see the covers move with every breath, and when he reaches out to touch her she screams and shoves him away.

“Mabel, it’s me, Birdy,” he says, but she shrinks away from him.

“I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go!” she sobs.

“Wake up, baby, wake up,” he says, and tries to gather her to himself but she kicks him in the stomach and twists away. 

“Mabel?” someone says from the doorway, and Wirt twists his head to see Dipper standing in Mabel’s doorway.  He swears internally that he didn’t close it and keep Dipper from losing the precious amount of sleep he can get.

“It’s okay, buddy, she’s just having a bad dream,” he says, but Dipper doesn’t heed him and runs towards his sister. 

“Mabel,” he calls out, and crawls up on the bed.  “Mabel, wake up! It’s just a dream!”

At first, Mabel fights him as well, but his voice seems to pierce her dreams.  Her hands seem to go back and forth between attacking him and reaching for him as she wakes, but doesn’t stop crying; she seems completely debilitated in her fear.  Dipper clutches her to his body, pinning down her arms and keeping her from hitting him in her just-awoken panic.  He rocks back and forth, and Mabel’s frantic screams give way to hysterical sobs.

“I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go!”

“You don’t have to go, it’s okay,” Dipper hushes her, hugging her to himself with an iron grip.  Their parents can only watch in abstract horror, unable to do anything to help their daughter with this nightmare.

“Where-where-where-where’s Great--”

“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Dipper says.  

Mabel sobs into Dipper’s shoulder and curls into him, letting him encircle her with his arms like he can protect her from the world.  “I don’t want it, I don’t want it, I promise, Dipper, I promise--”

“I know,” Dipper says softly.  “I know.”

Mabel eventually slips off to sleep again, nodding off on Dipper’s shoulder.  Even then, Dipper doesn’t let go; instead, he maneuvers them both down so they are curled together in Mabel’s bed.  Wirt, tired of feeling like he can’t do anything, pulls the comforter over them.  Dipper, smoothing Mabel’s sweat-slicked hair back with the palm of his hand, gives a tight smile to his father. 

Wirt draws his wife out of the room softly, encasing her in a tight hug and letting her hide her tears in his chest.  After they go back to their room, he stares at the ceiling for hours to come and gets absolutely no work done at the office that day.

It’s time to call in the big guns.

oOoOo

Greg arrives two days later while the kids are at school.  Wirt takes a half day off from work to pick him up from the airport, and the sight of his burly half-brother fills him with unmistakable relief. 

Greg encases him in a breath-stealing hug, dropping his bags and practically lifting Wirt into the air.  Now a manager of a thriving construction company, he’s normally huge—and compared to his reedy brother, he’s all the larger.  But Wirt takes comfort in knowing Greg is here.

If anyone can help his kids, it’s him.

On the way home, as Greg settles into the passenger seat and Wirt drives the busy city streets, Wirt fills him in on what’s happened—or, at least, what he knows has happened.  Which isn’t anything, really.  But he tells him what he can.

“And you’re sure nothing happened?  Violence-wise or anything?” It’s not often that Greg is completely serious, but his brow is furrowed and he’s gnawing his knuckle thoughtfully.  Wirt is comforted by this; if even Greg can sense something, Wirt isn’t overreacting.

“I talked to Dipper about it, and he said no.  And I keep dropping hints, but it doesn’t seem like it.”  Wirt sighed and drew his hand over his face in frustration.  “I’ve called Stan I don’t know how many hundreds of times.  He never picks up.” 

“And they haven’t come out and told you what went on?”

“No!”

Greg sighs and taps his chin with his finger, his eyes trained on the window in front of him.  He stays like that for some time, not saying a word, and Wirt keeps his eyes anxiously on the road and lets his brother think.  It’s silent in the car for who knows how many minutes.  Wirt, nearly about to go out of his mind with anticipation, chances a glance at his brother.  Instead of deep concentration, however, Greg’s eyes follow the back-and-forth movements of the pine tree air freshener that swings above the dashboard.

“Greg?”

Silence.

“Greg, are you awake?”

“Huh?” Greg snaps out of his daze, and Wirt looses it.

“Greg!” he hollers. “My kids are in serious trouble!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Greg says sheepishly and holds his hands out.  He knows he’s in the wrong here.  “Got distracted.”

“Well, get un-distracted,” Wirt snaps.  “I need some help here.”

Greg blows out a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, then settles his cap backwards on his head once more.  “All right.  I’ll see what I can do.”

And when Mabel and Dipper nearly trip over themselves in an effort to fall upon their uncle when they get back from school, Wirt is completely confidant that he’s made the right decision.

oOoOo

“I don’t know what to tell you, bro,” Greg says late that evening in the kitchen as he picks a rainbow sticker off his hat.  “I tried to pry a little, but they won’t say anything.  Their lips are glued shut.”

Wirt collapses into a chair and rubs his hands over his face.  He reaches down, untucks his shirt from his pants, and recites some Robert Frost mentally, calming down his frayed nerves.

“Stop thinking about poetry.”

“Wha--” Wirt frowns up at his younger brother and halts mid-mental sentence.  “Well, what do you suggest I do?”

Greg sighs and plops down into the chair opposite him, rubbing his hands together and watching Wirt cautiously, as if he’s afraid he’ll do something stupid.  “I don’t know.”  He gnaws his lip for a moment, then hesitates, “Do you think you should maybe…let it be?”

Wirt freezes and moves his eyes sideways, staring at Greg.  “I’m sorry, what?”

Greg shrugs.  “I’m not saying they don’t trust you, man, but…I don’t know if they exactly trust you right now.  Who knows?  It could have been something big, it could have just been a really scary movie they watched that they knew they weren’t supposed to.  I mean…remember the thing that happened when we were kids?”

A lantern and ghostly eyes shrouded in mist flash before Wirt’s eyes.  “Yeah…”

“That took us a while to get over.  And it was huge.  Buuuut remember when I watched Attack of the Killer Tomatoes when I was ten and I wouldn’t sleep alone for three months?”

Wirt remembers this with a little more fondness (though it was certainly not funny at the time; there was more he wanted to do with his summer than sleep alongside his younger brother). “Yeah.”

“I was so scared to tell mom because I knew she’d kick my butt for it.  I knew I wasn’t supposed to watch stuff like that.”  Greg shrugs.  “So it could be big.  It could be small.  Who knows.  All I know, it that something’s up, and they’re not going to talk to you about it until they’re ready.”

Wirt sighs, a gusty outward expression of the turmoil he feels inwardly, and nods slowly. “I guess you’re right.”

Greg pounds Wirt’s shoulder with a meaty fist and nearly sends him toppling over. “I know I’m right,” he laughs, and then he stands up and makes his way to the counter. “Now, tell me you’re not a guy that doesn’t keep some beer in the house.”

“Please,” Wirt scoffs as he points to a cupboard on the right, “I’m not a complete lunatic.”

oOoOo

The next few days, Greg hangs out with Wirt’s wife and helps out around the house while Wirt works a few half days, then makes merry with the kids at night.  Having their uncle around seems to help put them back on the track to themselves once more; Dipper laughs more, Mabel has started singing songs, and the atmosphere seems to grow a little jollier. 

Still, Wirt keeps finding mystifying pieces of paper floating around the house.  Multiple slips of the confusing works have some little triangle thing written somewhere upon its person, and Wirt cannot figure out for the life of him why.  Is it a story Dipper’s writing?  A novel?  A school report?  It reminds him more than anything of the Illuminati symbol, but why would Dipper have anything to do with that?

Then Wirt remembers his conspiracy theorist days and is miffed that he didn’t at least have a few more years.  Dipper’s not even fourteen yet, for crying out loud.

On Tuesday, Mabel comes home sniffling and runs up to her room.  Wirt tries to get her out, her mother attempts, Greg tries to draw her out, and even Dipper’s coaxings only result in “Sweatertown is closed at the moment!”

Wirt asks Dipper what happened at school, and Dipper has no idea; he’s nervous and paces the living room floor for over an hour, until Greg says he’s going to wear a hole in the carpet and takes him outside for a game of “Frog Ball” (in which they toss frogs in the air and see if they can catch them).

Wirt makes a mental note to spray off the sidewalk later.

Eventually, however, Mabel troops downstairs for dinner and announces she wants to get her hair cut short. Everyone looks at each other, then back to Mabel, and the general consensus is that seems like a decent idea and she should do what she wants.  Everyone, that is, except for Dipper, who stares down Mabel with an eagle eye.

Later, Wirt is getting a book from his room when he hears Dipper corner his sister in the hallway.

“What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” she repeats back snappishly.

“Is this about that high school talk they gave us earlier?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mabel answers loftily.

“Mabel, high school is still a year away.”

“Am I not allowed to cut my hair?”

“Not for this reason!” Dipper insists, and by this time Wirt is genuinely confused.

“What reason?”

“Is this about what happened?”

“What happened?” Now she’s just being stubborn.

“Mabel, it’s okay to want--”

“Want what, Dipper?” Mabel blurts out in a hiss.  “Want things to stay the same?  Be so stupid to think that everything can just last forever?  That people aren’t going to get hurt because I’m so selfish?!  No, Dipper, it can’t stay the same!  Everything is going to change and if I try and keep everything the same I’m going to ruin everything, okay, _everything_ , so just leave me alone!”

Her footsteps run away down the hall, and Dipper doesn’t move for a few minutes.  Wirt can see him in his mind’s eye; staring down the hall after his disappeared sister.

And if he’s half as confused as Wirt, well…he’s one befuddled kid.

oOoOo

Wirt relays what transpired upstairs to his brother later that night, and they sit at the table for half an hour bouncing ideas off one another. By the end of their brainstorming session, neither is any closer to solving the mystery and both are genuinely perplexed.  Wirt’s wife is out for the night meeting with some other women from the neighborhood, so the boys drink beer and talk and try to relax for once. 

By the time 12:30 rolls around, they’re both tired and frustrated, so they decide to hit the sack and continue where they left off the next morning.  They rinse out the bottles, bump fists, and head to bed.  Wirt manages to settle down in his blankets and throw an arm over his wife’s hip as she comes home and lays down next to him, welcoming the wave of sleep coming over him when he’s brutally awakened by another scream.

Wirt shoots up, trying to piece where this is coming from.

“MABEL!”

Dipper.

Wirt stumbles out of bed and throws on the light, nearly tripping over a shirt on the floor.  He almost smacks into Greg hurtling out of the guest bedroom.  He’s holding a slab of wood (Wirt doesn’t even want to think about where it came from) and looks about as coherent as a drunk man.  Dipper’s cry comes again, and they run to his door and blast it open. 

Dipper’s sitting straight up in his bed, eyes wide and chest heaving.  A chill goes down Wirt’s spine as he sees tear tracks down Dipper’s cheeks reflected in the light that’s still on in the corner of his room.   

“M-Mabel!” Dipper sobs hysterically, and Wirt’s wife rushes to his side.

“It’s okay, baby, Mabel’s here,” she says soothingly, but in Dipper’s awakened but sleep-addled state, he pushes her away and curls his hands to his head, his chest hiccupping. 

“Dipper--”

“I left Mabel alone!” he cries, and fights his way down from his bed and pushes through the trio of concerned adults before they even know what he’s doing. They stare at each other in shock for a beat, then turn as one and follow him next door to their daughter’s room.

And freeze, because _Mabel’s not here_.

“Ohhh, no,” Dipper moans, and his fists pull through his hair to leave it sticking straight up in awkward tufts. “Mabel, Mabel, she’s gone, _Mabel--”_

“Mabel’s still here, honey,” Wirt’s wife tries to say, but Dipper staggers to the bed and rips her blankets off. 

“I left Mabel, oh my god, he took Mabel--” Dipper halts, then, near hysterical, runs out the door.  “ _Mabel!_ ”

He runs out of the room, the adults following behind, and runs straight into Mabel, who’s wiping off her hands as she exits the bathroom.  Their bodies slam into each other and fall on the floor, a flurry of pajamas and brown hair and tears. The twins sit up and look at each other as Dipper exclaims her name.

“Dipper?” she says, and Dipper bursts into tears.

“I thought-I thought-” he sobs, and covers his face with his hands.  “I thought he-I thought you- _Mabel_ \--”

“H-hey, it’s okay,” Mabel says, still sleepy and a little confused but knowing enough that her brother is in sever distress. “I’m here, okay?  I just had to pee!”

“I thought you were gone,” Dipper weeps, and Mabel circles her arms around him, holding him carefully in a little, teary ball.

“It’s okay.  I’m here.  No-one’s gonna get us.”  She rocks him back and forth, crooning softly to him.  Soon she’s got tears and snot and glitter (through no fault of Dipper’s) all along her pink unicorn pajamas, but she doesn’t seem to care.  All she seems to care about is making sure Dipper calms down, not paying any heed to the adults still watching them.

 

Eventually, they situate the twins back in Mabel’s bed; Dipper refuses to leave Mabel’s side and Mabel has no intention of letting him go.  Wirt nestles them down in her covers, his wife leaves some water on the nightstand, and soon enough they’re both back in dreamland. 

Well.  Hopefully not the dreamland they’ve left behind.

Too awake to sleep now, Wirt goes downstairs to make himself some tea. He places a kettle on the stove, gets a mug from the cupboard, and turns to place it on the table when he sees Greg standing in the doorway, still brandishing his trusty plank of wood. 

Wirt jumps, nearly dropping the mug, but he’s glad for the company.

Greg’s eyes are wide as he stares at Wirt.

“…What?” Wirt asks carefully.

“That wasn’t from any horror movie,” Greg says slowly.

“You see what I mean?” Wirt sighs in relief.

“You’re sure nothing physical happened to them?”

Wirt pauses, then nods.  “Dipper was too…sincere.  And Mabel doesn’t jump around men.”

Greg nods, biting his tongue and pondering for a moment.  “Then the only thing I can think of that might have happened…” He halts his train of thought for a moment, then continues.  “The last time I saw someone have a nightmare that bad—that _real_ —was after the Unknown.”

Wirt swallows and looks down.

“Something happened to them, Wirt.  And I think—well, the only reason I’m even saying this is because you and I both know some freaky stuff can happen.  We were there.  And…I think, maybe, something like that happened to them.”

“You don’t think they’d tell me?”

Greg scoffs.  “It’s something otherworldy, Wirt.  Did you tell Mom and Dad what happened to us?”

Fair point.

“Nah, man.  You know what I think you need to do?” Greg is as serious as Wirt’s ever seen him be, and that’s what scares him.

“What?” Wirt breathes.

“I think you need to tell them.” 

oOoOo 

“Kids!” Wirt yells upstairs the next day, about half an hour after they come home from school.  Greg left earlier that day, and his wife is at the grocery store, so it’s a prime time for him to do some…interesting…storytelling.

“Coming!” Mabel hollers, and they come trooping downstairs.  Dipper doesn’t look much the worse for wear after his ordeal the previous night; the bags under his eyes are a little pronounced, and he hasn’t been as jovial as usual, but he seems fairly normal.

Great.

“What’s all this?” Mabel questions, confusion written on her face as she stares at the coffee table in front of Wirt, where he sits on the couch in their living room.  “What are all these…journals?”

Dipper stares.

Hoo, boy.  Time for the plunge.  “These,” Wirt says, and takes a deep breath, “Are the journals following my freshman year in high school.” He gestures to the multiple worn notebooks sitting before him.

Mabel visibly deflates and moans. “Why do we have to talk about--”

“Ah ah, just wait,” Wirt cautions.  “The Halloween of my freshman year, Greg and I went out trick or treating.  Kind of.”

“Oh yeah, didn’t you guys fall in a lake?” Dipper asks.

“Yes.  And no.  Well, not exactly.” Wirt pushes his glasses further up on his nose and exhales.  “I’m gonna tell you a story.”

And he does.  He tells them about woods, and Jason Funderberker, and Rock Facts, and a school house full of animals, and Sarah, and Beatrice, and ghosts in little girls.  He tells them about dancing pumpkins, and skeletons growing in the ground, and ferries, and manors housing two people at once, and wolves with glowing eyes.  He tells them about the Woodsman, and blizzards, and his brother pale and twisted in a tree.  He tells them about the Beast, and ghostly eyes, and a song on the breeze, and grappling with the decision of his life, and choosing his brother.

He tells them about the Unknown.

When it’s done, the twins stare at him with wide eyes. They long ago desisted any fidgeting or movement, and haven’t so much as twitched in ages. They’re captivated by him, and there’s not any attempt by either of them to say anything following the end of his tale.  The three of them sit in silence, staring at each other. 

“So,” Wirt finally says, breaking the quiet abruptly.  “Was there something you guys wanted to tell me?”

oOoOo

**Author's Note:**

> AN: I’d just like to take a moment and say I don’t think rape is any laughing matter whatsoever, but I’d like to explain myself before anyone tries to yell at me about it. Dipper is so relieved his father doesn’t suspect anything that happened in the Falls/Weirdmaggeddon, and he hadn’t considered the thought before, so he’s laughing out of relief. There’s nothing funny about rape, or molestation, or sexual/physical abuse. Just to put that out there.  
> I hope you enjoyed this fun little romp, and you should definitely let me know what you thought in a review. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to inbox me; or if you want to scrEAM ABOUT THESE KIDS WITH ME HOLY S H I T PLEASE DO I LOVE THEM S O M U C H


End file.
